


There's No Saving Anything

by allourheroes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Can zombies give consent?, Cannibalism, Domestic, Fluff, Human/Zombie Love, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia???, You read all those tags correctly., i guess, some sexual content, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the meet-cute: Hannibal is in a bad mood. He kills Will and cuts out his liver.</p>
<p>They fall in love, or something akin to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Saving Anything

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song "Runaway" by The National, because I like them but also because that song ends the movie _Warm Bodies_ that caused me to write this in the first place. I have been referring to this fic most of this time as "domestic zombie fluff." Whoops.

Hannibal was in no mood to deal with any sort of inconvenience. He'd had a particularly annoying patient, gotten a snag on his new coat, and to top it all off, he was running late for an appointment with his own psychiatrist.

When a man bumped into him on the street without so much as a word of apology, he took action.

He was normally very careful. He'd choose people he hadn't seen in years, who would not remember him, and do it all with a meal in mind. It was impulsive to follow the man and forego his appointment, but that lack of common decency was his last straw. Besides, he had no connection to this man, no way for this exception to be traced.

It was only late afternoon, but with winter creeping up on them, it was already getting dark. Quietly, nonchalantly, he stalked.

\---

The man is dead, his liver in a cooler and, for reasons he isn't quite certain of, Hannibal hesitates.

Perhaps it is because he hadn't planned for this, had little knowledge of the man in the first place--not even a name--that he takes the time to examine the man's wallet. William Graham. A temporary FBI badge had been shoved thoughtlessly into his pocket and Hannibal inhales sharply.

He stares at the man's face, holding the man's ID between his gloved fingers. "You may have been something, dear William." He strokes the man's unshaven cheek and...it feels like a twitch.

His brows furrow and he moves his hand down to the man's throat, fingertips feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He's a corpse, just as Hannibal knows he is.

A hand grasps his wrist and he's so startled the ID slips from his fingers. He isn't sure if it makes a sound, there is only his heart pounding in his ears. His vision latches onto the hand in shock before he notices the man's face.

The eyes are dead and yet they are turned on him, watching him.

"Mr. Graham?" he says, and his voice does not quaver.

The man does not blink but his jaw is working and, finally, a rasping voice escapes his lips. "Who are you?" His free hand moves to the incision and Hannibal sighs. He will stitch this one back up.

"I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And you, William Graham, are dead."

\---

With regret at the loss of his meal, Hannibal sews the liver back into place and his needle moves through the cold, stiffening flesh as efficiently as it had when he was still a surgeon--not that he had often been sewing up the dead.

In fact, he preferred slicing open the still living as he found that the fresher the meat, the better the taste. Of course, they would die and he would arrange their corpses in ways he felt were fitting, but that was an entirely different matter altogether.

Will Graham--the man, dead as he is, calls himself Will--is the first thing Hannibal has ever seen reanimate itself. It is fascinating. He is fascinating, even beyond this fact.

Hannibal almost feels bad about killing the man in the first place, not that he isn't also amazed at what has happened. Immediately upon conversation, Hannibal can tell that he is, indeed, very bright. He might've been someone Hannibal could consider a friend. He supposes he still could.

Interest piqued, Hannibal takes Will to his home. He watches him struggle with his dead body, already a bit paler than he was even in life. He moves slowly, but does not seem all that bothered by it, as if too absorbed in other thoughts.

Hannibal is hungry and as his victim has become his guest, gestures for the man to sit. "Can I offer you anything, Will?" He is beginning to guess that what he initially assumed to be rudeness may have been better attributed to the man's atrocious social skill. Even in death, Will Graham is anxious, avoids eye contact.

Will lets out something between a grunt and a chuckle. "Throat's a little dry," he replies, and Hannibal can hear the difficulty with which he swallows. Despite his movement, the man still looks dead. Hannibal brings him a glass of water, curious to see how this will work out.

Hannibal heads into his kitchen. He will feel better after a proper meal. He pulls lungs from his refrigerator--they had once belonged to an awful woman; she was a dermatologist who did not stop talking during the opera two years ago, and three days ago he had finally killed her. He'd had big plans for these lungs, but something more simple would do, given the circumstances.

He presses them, bruising them, and hears the scuffle of shoes behind him.

"You're a cannibal," Will says simply.

Hannibal pauses, cocking his head. He glances at Will out of the corner of his eye and then focuses purposefully on the lungs. "Yes."

"Shouldn't I be the one eating people now?" Will asks.

Hannibal has to look at him at this. There's a dark humor about Will's expression that makes Hannibal want to smile, too. "Do you feel as if you would like to eat a human being, Will?"

Will shakes his head slightly, "No, but I don't feel like a zombie either and..." He trails off, turning his hand in the air before him to indicate his new state of being. "Shouldn't you be afraid of me? I could eat your brain."

There's a dry quality to Will's voice, his statement, that Hannibal finds himself rather enjoying. "If you would like, I could cook some for you. Brains are quite the delicacy," he returns, focusing again on the progress of his meal. He has begun cutting away the pieces he does not wish to consume.

Will shakes his head. "No," he replies. As an afterthought, he adds, "Thank you though."

They are quiet for a moment, the sound of Hannibal chopping up the meat filling the kitchen. He fries the chunks of lung, adding red wine for flavor.

Will was never much of a cook, not that his dogs cared. What Hannibal does is something of a mystery, but he watches none the less as Hannibal serves up something that Will feels looks far more appetizing than it has any right to. Then again, maybe he does want to eat people if they smell that good.

He sits back down at the table with Hannibal as the other man sets a place for himself.

"What did you do for the FBI?" Hannibal asks, after taking a sip from his wine glass.

"I'm-- I was a t-teacher," Will says with a stutter. Hannibal is surprised at how quickly the man is adjusting his view of his life since his very recent death. The nervousness wants to squirm through Will's body, but is delayed. Will pats the pockets of his jacket and pulls out a pair of glasses, settling them a bit unevenly on his face.

Observing as he chews, Hannibal swallows before he speaks. "Oh?" he inquires politely.

"I also profiled serial killers. I can...get inside their minds. Anyone's mind, really."

This comes as no shock to Hannibal. The man is special, has made assumptions others could never dare to imagine since he...woke up. Yes, that seems a good way of putting it. He poses a question, "Can you see inside my mind, Will?" He rests his fork and knife at the edge of his plate, still gripped in his hands. This time, Will makes eye contact and it's as if he searches Hannibal's soul.

"I'm... I'm not sure," Will says, looking away.

Hannibal does not press.

"What are you planning on doing with me?" Will says, after a moment.

"What do you think?" Hannibal questions back.

"To be honest," Will starts, "I'm not entirely sure." His voice is hard here, trying to prevent himself from shaking and stuttering. "I mean, you've already killed me."

Hannibal nods. "That is true. However...I am finding myself enjoying your company."

"So what?" Will asks with a dry laugh. "Are we going to be friends now?" He stresses the word, pushing it past his teeth.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, "What would you propose I do?"

Will shrugs.

"As I have never seen a man come back to life such as this before, I must wonder what makes you so unique." He looks at the remainder of his meal, to detract from the intensity of his statement.

"Maybe God just loves me," Will replies petulantly.

Hannibal glances up at that, "Perhaps, but God also loves death. If he loved you, would he not wish to allow you entrance into heaven?"

Will's eyes flicker to him and down to the now empty water glass his fingers are toying with. None of this can be real. His brain function should not be possible and yet his thoughts are still there, he is still moving. He can speak. And he is sitting at a table having a conversation with his killer, like one of his waking dreams.

Hannibal watches him a moment longer and takes his dishes back to the kitchen. Will listens to the sound of water running and purposely blinks his eyes. He remains in the same place, shifts and can feel the unfamiliar pull of stitches in his abdomen, imagines that his liver feels different since it has been removed and replaced.

He should hate this man and yet he does not--he's never had much need for the emotion anyway. The man does not seem unkind. Dr. Lecter is oddly courteous, mannered in a way that would usually make Will feel uncomfortable. Will... He wants to like him, does like him, even.

Will hasn't felt this much of a connection to another human being in a long time. What a strange thing for a dead man to think.

\---

Hannibal takes Will to care for his dogs. They are wary of him--he doesn't smell the same, something is off about him--but forget their confusion when Hannibal feeds them his homemade sausages. Will doesn't know what to do with them given his new situation, but watching Hannibal makes him feel like it will be okay.

A week passes and Will realizes he has feelings for the man who killed him, is beginning to genuinely care for him. When Hannibal smiles at his strange brand of humor, Will dares to meet his eyes again. He tries to put himself into Hannibal's mind, thinks that perhaps the affection he feels is returned.

He pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind. They are not important when he is dead. He wants to know what he is now. His body isn't healing. Where Hannibal cut him open and stitched him back up is the same as it was that first day. It's held shut by his stitches, but the flesh isn't mending itself. And yet, he's not rotting either. It's as if he is in some sort of stasis.

Will's body is somewhat cold, a little hard, and very pale. When he sees himself in the mirror, his eyes lack that spark of humanity he knows should be there, must avoid in everyone else's. It is strange to have his imagination take over, to see his own death at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. There are parts he feels he must be remembering, but there is more than that. There is an art to it and it has come to take on a strangely romantic, almost sexual note.

Will Graham has never been normal.

Hannibal goes to appointments and Will stays. Why does he stay? Why doesn't he get as far away from this murderer--this cannibal--as he possibly can?

Where would he go now? Home? With what he has become, what right does he have to this world? What's dead is dead, even if he is still walking and talking.

They're probably looking for him, but he doubts there is any surprise at the fact that Will Graham seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. He has had a tendency of wandering off, of sleep walking, that makes it hard to assume he has been murdered rather than having simply lost himself.

So, Will stays.

Hannibal comes back late that night, but with him are Will's dogs. Given Hannibal's perfectionist nature, his disdain for so many things, it comes as a shock to see Hannibal ushering his dogs into his nice, clean house.

"I believed they would bring you some comfort," Hannibal says, before Will can form a proper reaction.

Will's mouth hangs open.

"Am I correct in this assumption?" Hannibal asks. He has a softer way of looking at Will lately and Will wonders why neither of them sees a monster staring back.

"Yes, th-thank you, Dr. Lecter," Will manages, kneeling down to allow his dogs access. Their fur is still soft between his fingers, but everything has a not quite dulled feeling to it.

"Please, Will, call me Hannibal," he tells him. "Unless you would prefer I also address you as Mr. Graham," he amends.

Will shakes his head and repeats, "Thank you, Hannibal." It is the first time he has used the man's name outside of his own head.

Hannibal smiles. It's subtle, and yet still bright and genuine.

Will can't help but return it.

"Will," Hannibal starts, maintaining a careful distance. "Despite circumstance, I am pleased to have met you."

That night, Will dines with Hannibal. He knows that it is human meat he is consuming, that he was going to be a meal himself, and is grateful for Hannibal's generosity at the same time. Their conversation is much the same as usual. It is comfortable. Will has been adjusting to being dead and this new life with Hannibal.

Afterwards, Hannibal feeds the scraps to the dogs, scratches behind their ears.

Will wants to kiss him just then.

He's seen the news, the articles written by Freddie Lounds with their disturbing pictures. He knows which belong to Hannibal, who it is he's just eaten.

"Hey," he says as Hannibal stands, brushing off his hands. Hannibal could reject him, this could ruin things. There's a warmth, however, in Hannibal's expression, the way his eyes crinkle, and Will is no good at social cues, but it doesn't matter.

He places a cold hand on Hannibal's cheek and the other man stills. Will leans forward before he can lose the nerve. He presses his lips to Hannibal's and when Hannibal does not respond, he begins to realize the mistake he's made.

"S-sorry," Will says, dropping his hand and pulling back. "That was stupid. I don't know why I..."

"Will." Hannibal sighs.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment as Will clenches his hands at his sides. He is certain that if he looks at Hannibal now, he will see pity, can picture it perfectly in his mind. He keeps his eyes closed, even when he can practically feel the heat radiating off of the doctor as he steps closer.

Hannibal grips Will's arm. "You misunderstand," he whispers and Will is being pressed back against the wall.

Hannibal inhales deeply, "You do not smell dead." He breathes out slowly through his nose, "Nor alive, and yet..." He does not complete the sentence.

Will dares to open his eyes and finds Hannibal's staring straight back into them. His lips are parted and he does not need to breathe anymore but he sucks in a breath nonetheless. Then, Hannibal's mouth is on his, hungry. Will clutches at him and Hannibal's hands are on his hips and, oh, his body does not believe itself quite dead either, it seems.

If his heart still beat, it would be pounding. With things as they are, it's as if Hannibal's is amplified.

Will kisses desperately, sparks lighting up in his otherwise dormant body. He wants. His hands crumple Hannibal's expensive white button-down shirt.

Hannibal pulls away, turns and walks to the sink. He washes his hands.

Will is leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes are unfocused. His hands are holding nothing for too long of a moment before they fall slowly to his sides. He glances at Hannibal. The man acts as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and it makes Will wonder if it was real at all. He's always had a tendency to let his imagination get out of hand--by which he actually means that he cannot control it.

Even if his heart was pounding, it wouldn't exclude the event as something of his imagining. It is, however, still more difficult to tell in his lifeless body.

Winston, the newest of his strays, presses a wet nose to his palm and he raises his hand, allows himself to focus on the dog. Animals are so much easier than people. When he looks at Winston, he doesn't lose himself in the dog's mind. He finds comfort in the way the dog looks up at him, not wary like the others but pleased to be at his side. He finds himself smiling at the dog, sliding to a crouch on the floor.

Hannibal eyes him in his peripheral vision. Something had almost happened that he could not quite explain. In general, sexual attraction did not factor into his everyday life. Why, then, did a dead man have him considering actions he hadn't taken in years?

Hannibal very resolutely did not move closer to Will that night. He was the aggressor, preferred it that way, and yet he found himself shy. Perhaps even he had a problem taking advantage of someone he had almost eaten, had already taken the life of. It would be considered necrophilia to act on such urges and he had never considered this something he would like to try--curious an animal as he was.

As he unbuttons his vest, his white shirt underneath, he wonders exactly how death has changed Will Graham. Was it possible for Will to feel a sexual appetite? Did his body still react to those sorts of things? He could take pleasure in Will whether or not the other man could feel the same, but he would prefer Will enjoyed himself as well. If he liked someone, and such was the case with Will Graham, he found a reciprocal relationship to be extremely...pleasant.

If only he'd truly met the man in life. He shakes his head. What a ridiculous notion to lodge in his mind now, when there is nothing to be done about it. He will not let that take root. Will Graham is dead, by his hand. He must keep that at the forefront of his thoughts. That the man is dead yet animated, as well as intelligent, is what Hannibal has become fascinated with. His focus must be the absurdity of it all. Why, then, did he bring Will's dogs into his immaculate home?

To please him.

Hannibal dreams of a man with bright eyes explaining the reasoning behind murders he has committed. They are standing together, shifting through photographs of the crimes, when he slips one out from the pile. "Did I deserve this?" Will says, picture of his own body--bloody incision across his abdomen--between his fingers. Hannibal looks up from the photo to the man's face. The color has drained from it and his cold, dead eyes stare back at him blankly.

When Hannibal awakens, he wonders if this is what guilt feels like. He almost laughs at the thought. It is a Sunday, however, and he does not have anything planned for the day. Were it a reasonable option and were he courting the man, which he reiterates he is not, he would want to take Will to the fine art exhibit he's been looking forward to, or perhaps even the opera. He does not know if Will would enjoy such things, but his desire to share his favorite pastimes--unrelated to food, that is--is quite unusual. He is generally quite happy to be on his own, to have no distraction from the arts and to bask in the mastery of their creators.

Will does not sleep, he knows. This does not stop him from having nightmares. The man is deeply traumatized and Hannibal must wonder if Will knows the power of a kill, firsthand. He doubts it, however, as Will stutters when he seeps into a killer's mind. It is a pity, thinks Hannibal. Will is the only human being he has ever thought could be a partner to him. When Will discusses his kills, there is a certain amount of respect to it. "I know it's you," he had said, "but if you hadn't killed me... If I didn't know what you were..." Shaking his head, Will had paused, "You'd be very hard to catch."

How Will connects the dots is an art in and of itself; one he wishes he could've watched at the crime scenes, as Will tells him he used to do. Will's empathy is impressive. Whether or not it had been any better before he lost his life, Hannibal still would've surely been caught, eventually.

Will has kept more to himself since the night Hannibal brought him his dogs. There is an apology in the way he speaks, as if feeling he has overstepped Hannibal's boundaries. It only serves to make Hannibal less cautious.

The mind of a predator reacts eagerly to the meekness of its prey and Will has shown a vulnerability now, since he has become used to Hannibal's presence. The lust he had tried to deny blossoms the second he sees Will look away, his hand shake as he adjusts his glasses. It is the first time the tremors, so clearly a normal manifestation of Will's anxiety, have really come out since his death. His body comparably sluggish when it comes to those sorts of reactions. Will is not frightened of him for what he is, but rather frightened of what he himself might do. Will's struggle, the way he tries to keep himself from seeming overly attached to Hannibal, keeping to himself... It is intoxicating in and of itself, this weakness.

Hannibal is pleased to see the depths of Will's emotional ability when he is himself and not some shadow of a murderer he's never even met. Emotionality and physicality are both present. He suspects that Will's dead body can be excited, rejuvenated, given the right stimulus; no, he will never be alive again, but he believes it will be close enough.

\---

Hannibal's eyes are as sharp as an eagle's as he plucks pieces of fur one by one off of his love seat. He says nothing as he does this and the dogs seem to know better than to bother him.

After dinner, he feeds them the scraps as he often does, the look on his face giving away nothing.

Will notices that a house full of dogs is not the cleanest situation a person can be in. To some degree, he was previously aware of this fact. It is a part of his life--his death, he supposes, too--and a great comfort to him. Being surrounded by his strays makes him happy in a way that human companionship had always failed to do. Despite appearances, people always had that sense of doubt, of annoyance around him. He could see it. The dogs return his affection without disgust and expect little from him. He feels responsible because he chooses to be.

Hannibal is unreadable, but there doesn't seem to be any reason for him to lie about enjoying Will's company. He's sure the man could kill him again, and properly, were he interested in doing so.

For Hannibal's sake, after the man leaves for the office, Will locates the vacuum; it is expensive and comes with multiple attachments, things which do not surprise Will in the slightest. He is lacking in experience, but he does his best, using the smaller hose to tackle the seats of the chairs, sofa, love seat.

It takes him a couple of hours, but the house is much less covered in dog fur by the time Hannibal arrives home. Hannibal looks pleased, smiles softly at Will, but says nothing.

Will watches Hannibal pull something from the fridge and he cannot tell at first what it is, not through all of the plastic wrap. He almost laughs when Hannibal sets the brain on the cutting board. He does laugh when Hannibal looks at him, raising an eyebrow, "Shall we see if you've developed a taste for them?"

Hannibal is quite happy that he's managed to break Will's nervous mood. He prepares the brain of a neurologist as if he is cooking for royalty, using his skill and culinary knowledge as he has always preferred. Will watches him, his interest enough to distract from his discomfort. He does not offer to help and Hannibal is grateful for that. Will is brilliant, but he is no artist.

"This is delicious," Will tells him, as they dine across the table from one another. His table manners leave something to be desired, and yet Hannibal does not complain. The dogs do not sit by the table and beg.

He accepts the compliment for what it is, "I am certainly glad you think so." The side of his mouth curves into a smile as he takes a sip of his wine.

Will watches the man's Adam's apple bob with the action, following the line of his throat. The crisp white collar of his shirt and the paisley necktie knotted there do not stop him from following it farther. He swallows, not because he has been eating, and looks back down at his beautifully prepared plate. "Dr. Lecter--Hannibal, I feel as if I should apologize," Will rasps, hand fumbling slightly on his own wine glass as he draws it to his lips.

Hannibal's head tilts ever so slightly, his gaze flickering up from the careful dance of his silverware only long enough to watch Will's fingers tighten around the stem. "Whatever for?" he asks innocently, the animal in him rising. He knows,

Hannibal pushes his perfect bite of brain and sauce past his lips and Will wonders if the memory of that mouth against his own had been real at all. The doctor dabs his napkin delicately against his mouth, keeping himself pristine, and Will's uncertainty leads to hesitation. He shakes his head, pulling his hand away from his glass before he can accidentally break it, and murmurs, "I'm...unsure."

Hannibal will not let it go so easily, comfortable in his speech as he leans away, pleased to see Will's instinctive movement towards him. "If you are referring to the kiss, I assure you it was quite real." He is aware that this will not answer Will's question completely, that the man will not know if he means the tentative touch of Will's lips to his own or the audacity of pressing his body to Will's and taking his mouth as if it were his by rights. This fact only adds to his enjoyment of their current situation.

Will nods hesitantly, fingers curling into his palms as he attempts dragging them into his lap. The movement is stopped by the firm press of Hannibal's still somehow gentle grasp. Will lets out a shaky gasp at the contact, eyes closing involuntarily as he struggles to focus on the feeling of the doctor's warm palm atop the cold flesh of his own hand. It is almost enough to feel alive. Instinctively, he craves the false reassurance accompanying Hannibal's touch.

"Will," Hannibal says, his voice smooth and thick like smoke. He waits until Will's gaze meets his and perhaps it is the reflection of the lights above gleaming in the dead man's eyes that give them the appearance of life's spark. There are times in which decorum must be thrust to the side and Hannibal has the uncanny ability to detect precisely when this is the case.

Unable to stare into the eyes of another for so long, in this case to hide his own mind from intrusion rather than prevent his imagination from taking over. He does not hear Hannibal move, but there is now a hand caressing the back of his neck. His chair is pulled forcibly back, head tilted up, and a knee insinuates itself between his own.

"My dear Will," the doctor murmurs against his lips as Hannibal grips his face. "This is quite real." Will's lips part, his throat working. Hannibal's lips brush against the other man's as he adds, "Although it may be unwise to trust the word of your killer." He does not allow Will to react to these words, rougher now than he was that night in his kitchen. Will must hold onto him or risk falling out of his chair at the aggression of his kiss.

He accepts the fact that his suit may be damaged as the dead man's fingers clutch desperately at his chest, at whatever he can. His hands move with insistent determination. It is now a mystery he must know the answers to and as he feels Will's flesh reacting to his attentions like that of the living, he moans into the man's mouth.

Will startles as the surgeon's deft hand has his fly open and a palm against him. "There's some life in you yet," Hannibal states plainly, pulling back. Will feels what would be a flush of embarrassment, but it cannot possibly be--can it? Hannibal's hand wraps around him. "Your body temperature is rising, quite unusual for a dead man," his accent is so heavy Will can barely decipher his words through the haze that has descended upon him.

"I can't explain any of it," Will whispers, "and I don't think a dead man can give consent."

"Perhaps not."

Hannibal takes him to the bedroom and Will does not hear so much as a whimper from the dogs as he is led past them. His fingers feel less stiff now but they still struggle with the buttons of Hannibal's vest and shirt, pushing their way under as quickly as they can so that he may touch. He groans as Hannibal shrugs off the articles of clothing and his warmth lays flat against Will's own bare skin. He loses himself in a dream, of Hannibal hovering over him, a pair of antlers adorning his head as he pulls the doctor closer.

Imaginings are lost as Hannibal pulls his fingers free and presses into him.

It is in that moment that the dead man's heart begins to thump painfully to the rhythm of his killer's.


End file.
